


The Sky Dark in its Eclipse : Orange Light Remix

by DesdemonaKaylose



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Families of Choice, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, No Cybertronian Civil War, Rung is having One of Those Lives, Self contained, no outside knowledge necessary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:08:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24243313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesdemonaKaylose/pseuds/DesdemonaKaylose
Summary: Barred from psychiatry after the disaster of the Fateful Archetype, Rung allows himself to be shuffled away to the halls of a modestly respectable university, and tries not to think about the trail of catastrophe he's left in his wake.It's hard not to think about it, though, with another bright young mech lining up to have his future ruined at Rung's hands.
Relationships: Hot Rod/Rung
Comments: 11
Kudos: 72





	The Sky Dark in its Eclipse : Orange Light Remix

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [It's not Thanksgiving if you didn't have a lot of feelings about the whole thing or burn the turkey or sleep on somebody's couch or something](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16662455) by [Chokopoppo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chokopoppo/pseuds/Chokopoppo). 



> This was a fun little project I did over the weekend to keep me entertained, and I hope it can be entertaining to you too. This fic is a remix of Chokopoppo's 2018 fanfic, which was kind of a remix itself. This should be fully self-contained. No familiarity with the previous item is at all necessary. In fact, we hope to continue remixing this concept until it is utterly unrecognizable as anything related to the original and we're all living on Mars.

Rung almost leaves three times before he gets to the door. He checks and double-checks the scribbled note, the address, the apartment number—he sits in the lobby like an unwanted salesmech, watching the weather forecast scroll by on his HUD and wondering if it’s too late to take the train back to Rodion.

The Festival of Primus, on the first eclipse of the ice season, is traditionally spent in the company of loved ones. Amicae made the long journey to see their oldest friends, mentees returned to the homes of their mentors; it was a festival for reunion with the living, as much as the festival of Mortilus was a festival for reunion with the dead. And here Rung is, in a strange building, about to take the lift up into the company of strangers.

He’s terrified he’s going to bore them. Interesting people don’t bother with scrubby professors like Rung, who wears a shawl in his office because it’s a little too cold for his small engine and drinks his dinner in bars because he can’t stand to be alone in his home.

Staring at his reflection in the pitted copper wall plating, he fumbles dismally with his shawl for what must be—the seventh time? He’d checked it twice in the transport on the way over, once on the walk up, and now here, unable to commit to an elevator probably older than the now-defunct Functionist administration.

If he had just stuffed the shawl in a compartment, he wouldn’t have to deal with this. But it’s cold, and his engine is small, and shivering in a stranger’s home isn’t polite. He was told it was casual, that he should just make himself comfortable. Well, a shawl was comfortable. And shivering wasn’t casual.

‘Neither is a coat of polish that you bought to wear once on a date with a colleague before he plagiarized your monographs and ran off with your research notes,’ a bitter little voice says from the back of his head. Rung frowns and peers at his silhouette in the mirror again.

So it’s a nice gloss. That doesn’t mean anything. It was time to get it out of the cabinet anyway.

“Let me guess,” says a voice, and Rung turns to realize with some surprise that it’s intended for him, “First time meeting the conjunx’s amica? Maybe a brother in law? Nerves coming right up out of your chassis?”

The bot who did such an excellent job of sneaking up on him is pretty, in a forbidding sort of way, morbid pink on something sporty and vehicular. The ID tag pings him back with an alternative set of pronouns. Despite himself, Rung smiles, quietly endeared (as he always is) by the average youth’s tenacious desire to come off like they know everything. “Wrong on almost every count,” he admits, “I’m just meeting a friend. Practically as single as they come.”

“Funny,” she says. She readjusts the box hoisted up on her shoulder with thoughtless ease and steps forward towards the elevator, all teeth. “Because, _apparently_ , so am I. Are you waiting for the elevator?” Without waiting for an answer, she reaches past him and hits the call button.

“It is so hard to find serious mechs in this era,” she grouses, “and on top of that, I’ve got awful taste. I was supposed to take a train out to Kaon to meet the spawn of a glitch, but here I am!” She sighs. “Triple changers.”

“…Would you like to talk about it?”

“Nah, I’m okay,” she says. “Spending the night with some idiots and drinking my feelings. What are feelings? Never heard of ‘em.”

“Um,” Rung says, and is saved from having to say anything further by the arrival of the elevator. “Going up?”

“Oh, no thanks—I should take the stairs,” she says, “confined spaces make my sword arm itch. Nice talking to you…?”

“Oh, it’s Rung,” Rung says. “Nice to meet you.”

She turns to go—pauses at the foot of the stair—glances back over her shoulder. “By the way,” she adds, winking, “I like the polish, Rang.”

And then she’s gone.

Rung blinks, then sighs heavily and enters the elevator. “Just once,” he grouses to the closing doors, “I’d like to be hit on by someone who got my name right.”

~~

The semester had begun more or less exactly as every semester for the previous vorn had gone. Rung allowed himself to be bullied into taking on a larger course-load than his colleagues, practiced his lectures, cleaned his office.

Everything seems more or less set for the incoming class. Rung won’t find his issue until a little while in, when he collects the first assignment of basic 20 KB essays on the general mental health philosophy of the golden age period—nothing special, pretty introductory stuff, all told—and by then, it’s too late backtrack.

Honestly, it was supposed to be an easy essay. An easy passing mark to keep the freshmen engaged with the material but not overwhelmed. Which is why he knows his issue is an issue.

The writing itself is almost unreadable. If there’s an argument in there, Rung sure can’t find it. He can’t tell if it was written in ten sober kliks, or several blitzed hours, the night before it was due. After some fretting, Rung forgoes an actual failing grade this early in the semester, but he grimaces through his own comments until he checks the name on the submission, and everything comes together.

Hot Rod.

Hot Rod of Nyon is a problematic student.

It’s certainly not that Rung is prejudiced against sport models in the realm of academia. He was pushing for alt cross-training back in the days when that kind of talk could cost you a set of hands if you said it too loud, and he’s equally happy to take on curious stop-ins and dedicated medical students alike. Anyone who can pay the entrance fee and keep up with the coursework can get an education these days, and that includes high performance racer frames who look like they had their nasal ridge welded back into place by a backalley medic.

It’s just…. He’s a bizarre conundrum of problems in a magenta colored hurricane of oversized spoiler and flameburst decals and oddly appetizing motor oil fumes. There’s something incongruous about Hot Rod, something flashy and callous.

He’s disrespectful of school property, and he’s never paying attention, except for when he’s paying too much attention to the wrong things. He cuts a larger than life figure halfway up the levels of the lecture hall, alternatively scraping doodles into the desk top and gazing at Rung with an attentiveness that Rung finds deeply disorienting. He laughs at the other students, not always in a friendly way.

Rung looked into his records. His basic paperwork turns up more than a few question marks (who mentored him? Does this bot even _have_ a crèche registration?), and the gaps in his resume look an awful lot like potential criminal activity. Or maybe Rung just thinks that because Nyon has a motley reputation of its own. He remembers what the Dead End was like, back when he worked his practice up town from it, but he doesn’t honestly know anything about Nyon that isn’t transparently lurid gossip. The decals could be perfectly normal there. It doesn’t have to be a sign of conspicuous gang connections or ill-gotten flaunted wealth.

And it probably _doesn’t_ mean anything, the random moves, the string of jobs that don’t turn up on the grid and the long (sometimes very long) gaps between them. But…well…

Well, nothing interesting has happened to Rung since he accepted this position, and this at least would be _interesting_. He’s worked the same job for eighty years, teaching the same courses on the same material, assigning Froid’s books based on research papers that _Rung_ wrote, research that he’ll never be able to put his name on again. And it’s fine. So it’s a little _impersonal_. At least he’s helping a new generation of Cybertronians get the education their forefathers were systematically denied. He’s still making himself useful. It’s just—it’s just not psychiatry, that’s all.

And it’ll never _be_ psychiatry again, so there’s no point in _moping_ about it, is there? Right. _Right._

It’s not like his life is empty. He’s got seven crystal growths at home, five of which are still alive and three of which look like they’re going to continue being alive at least until midterms. He owns his own home. It’s a nice house, the sort of thing he can afford now that he’s salaried.

He’s fine.

It doesn’t matter that it’s a little impersonal. It doesn’t need to be _personal_.

Anyway, this was supposed to be about Hot Rod of Nyon and his horrible paper, Rung thinks (already exhausted), bringing the class roster forward and actively ignoring the still-visible mail alert in the background, which is currently displaying a message from professor Mesothulas about reproductive biology which he has no intention of answering. He has Hot Rod’s inbox coordinates on file. He could send him a message… tell him to swing by the office to talk about it. Maybe they could have a stern conversation about taking academics seriously, which Hot Rod wouldn’t listen to. At the very least, Rung could say he had tried.

And he would be alone in his cramped office with a brash, high-powered mech who was used to getting his way, which is—which would be—

Rung closes the roster, subjecting himself once again to the subject line _‘breeding modifications- psychological impact?’_ There’s an image file, too, which he’s not going to open. He’ll write Hot Rod a brief note, remind him of the office hours. If Hot Rod cares about this class, he’ll come and ask for help.

He probably won’t.

He’ll probably drop the class, and Rung will never see him again.

Like he said. Impersonal.

~~

Hot Rod does come though, without any warning, on an afternoon in early chill season, three days after the grades go out. Rung is poking listlessly at the graying air-coral by his open window and watching the chronometer, counting down the kliks until his office hours are used up, and when he turns back, Hot Rod is just there.

“ _Primus,_ ” he says, and knocks over his empty lunch cube, causing it to pop and disperse.

Hot Rod winces. “The door was open,” he says, almost—apologetically? “What kind of coral is that?”

“It’s a—ruby,” Rung says on automatic, clutching at his spark glass and desperately trying to drop his RPMs. “How can I, uh… what can I do for you?”

“Oh! Right,” Hot Rod says, and reaches for his bag on the floor next to his chair. “Well, you said we should come to see you if we had questions about the paper. I figured I would wait a few days so you weren’t in a rush with everyone else, but I have, uh, _questions_.”

He yanks a tablet out of the bag, shoves it in Rung’s face, and Rung can see his own markups on the screen readout even as he leans back in his chair. Rung’s fingers lock together on the table as he cranes back—he steels himself. Here it comes.

“So like,” Hot Rod says, looking at the essay in his hands, brow furrowed, “was it, like… not… good?”

Rung resets his optics.

“Because I thought I kind of nailed it,” Hot Rod admits, apparently oblivious to Rung’s shock, “I mean, I spent a lot of time on it. But I guess, like, I don’t really know what makes an essay good or bad? I haven’t really written anything academic since mentee evaluations, which was…” he bites his lip and stares out the window behind Rung pensively. “…What, forty years ago? Longer, I guess. And even then I didn’t really get how to do it.”

Rung resets again.

“So…what…did I do wrong?” Hot Rod asks.

Rung pops off his glasses and busies himself with cleaning them. He kind of expected to have a knife at his throat by now—or at least a hand, or something. Is it because his desk is messy? Does Hot Rod not want to climb over it? There _is_ some glassware, maybe if it shattered the powder would get in his seams… would that be incriminating evidence? He hasn’t talked to enough cops to know. 

He clears his throat. “Well,” he manages, “the assignment was a persuasive essay. Your argument wasn’t clearly presented. I actually couldn’t figure out what you were trying to say, which is a problem if you’re trying to convince me of something.”

Hot Rod blinks. “I was supposed to argue something?”

“That’s… what a persuasive essay _is,_ ” Rung says, starting to flounder. This isn’t—this was supposed to go differently. “There are four basic types of essays. In a persuasive essay, you take a stance—an argument—and you try to explain why it’s right, and why the reader should agree with you. That’s what this assignment was.”

“Okay, wait,” Hot Rod says, “so what are the other three? What are—I mean, how is that different from other—how do you tell them apart?”

Rung’s opening his mouth to tell him that _it really doesn’t matter, we’re just working on this paper right now_ when a needy little impulse pings him behind the processor again. _‘How long has it been,’_ it asks him, _‘since somebody genuinely wanted you to help them?’_ He closes his mouth. Considers his glasses thoughtfully. 

“Well, so, essays are essentially a way to convey information,” he says, “while persuasive essays argue a point, that’s still just a way to explain something—but in that case, it’s an opinion based on facts. In an expository essay, you’re just talking about facts… here, you referenced DeCart…”

Hot Rod leans in, and Rung reaches down into that well inside him and pulls. It’s not the same kind of helping he used to do, but it feels so good to be listened to again. There’s so much to say, and he lets it flow over the both of them as the time slides by.

At random, Rung glances at the time and realizes his office hours ended fifteen kliks ago. He makes his excuses and apologies. “We can talk more about this,” he says, “but I actually should go, I have class soon and I need to go over my lesson plan.”

“Hey, no problem,” Hot Rod says, “thanks for taking the time, I never got this kind of help back in Nyon. You don’t work tomorrow, yeah? Could I buy you a drink or something, take some extra time to talk about this?”

“Sorry,” Rung says, and he is a little sorry, “I like to keep my work in this office. It keeps things from following me home.”

“No worries,” Hot Rod says, smiling, “then maybe I can buy you a drink and not talk about work.”

Rung’s engine goes hot.

“No, I, um,” he manages, wishing desperately that he kept coolant around, “I can’t… do that. Sorry. I can’t.”

“Oh. Why?”

“Wh—because you’re my student,” he says, “I can’t see you outside of class in anything but a thoroughly professional context until you’ve finished the course.”

“Oh! Because of favors, okay,” Hot Rod says, snapping his fingers. His whole countenance lights up. “Hey, then all I have to do is wait to graduate this course, right? Finish. Finish this course. That’s only, what, three lunar cycles?” He’s grinning as he gathers up his datapad and bag. “There it is! It’s a date!”

“What? No, it’s not,” Rung says, standing up at his desk—but Hot Rod is already moving towards the door.

“Nope, you can’t convince me I’m wrong if you can’t catch me,” he says cheerfully, “I’m leaving, and taking my certainty with me!”

“No! What? Hot Rod, what?”

The door shuts, leaving Rung’s protests to fall on deaf audials. After a moment he slumps into his seat, faceplate hot, glasses all but fogging up.

Not a single word of that was how that interaction was supposed to go. He wonders idly if Hot Rod even _owns_ a knife. Maybe he hasn’t ever even threatened anyone.

~~

They meet with astonishing frequency as the semester slips along, as the days get shorter and the walk from the train station gets colder. Rung’s office isn’t properly heated like the rest of the building, and the temptation to meet in the cozy little fuel stop across the street grows strong. But the office gives him protection—Hot Rod is interested in learning, for sure, but it’s becoming apparent that he’s also interested in Rung. Very interested in Rung. Unshakably, strangely interested in Rung.

“Hey, I’m going down to Maccadam’s to get a drink after this,” Hot Rod tells him, late in the chill season, when Rung is halfway through reading his most recent rough draft for the next assignment. “You wanna come with?”

“Why do you keep asking?”

“Uh, ‘cause maybe you’ll forget about professionalism this time and come with?” He grins.

“No, I mean—” Rung presses a finger to his forehead. “Why are you asking _me?_ There are people your age, you’re _at_ a college. You know, people with more… common interests with you.”

“Yeah, but I like you.”

“But _why?_ ” Rung throws a hand up. “There are more interesting people in your peer group. There are more interesting professors! I happen to know that Professor Necho is currently lecturing on the history of prostitution with some deeply inappropriate visual aids not a two-klik elevator trip from here. I… wear shawls. I mean, it’s all very flattering, but I don’t understand it.”

“Nothing wrong with shawls,” Hot Rod says. “Are you okay? You seem… not okay.”

“I’m fine,” Rung says, sighing, and pokes at the dead coral sitting by the window. “I’m always fine.”

~~

It’s not always about the work. Hot Rod is interested—really _interested_ in learning, but he’s also a bit of a motor mouth. If Rung lets him go, he’ll just _go._

“I never got much education in the crèche,” he admits once, as the winter draws near. “I mean, eventually I got picked up by a mentor once my outlier ability kicked in, so I was outta Nyon before they could stamp _dumb as a box of bolts_ on my records officially. Shoulda been smooth sailing after that. Tyrest had plenty of credits, all that stuff, but I was struggling a lot. Real self-destructive, real problem for the old mech. _He_ had all these ideas about how grateful I oughta be for getting pulled out of that ghetto, and I just couldn’t get used to the rules and the expectations and the _yessir nosir_ , you know? The, uh, the—”

“Societal conventions?”

“That’s it. And I knew I didn’t know slag, but back then I didn’t care about that at all. I was just like, I gotta get out of this place. I just started working, trying to make money, living on my own. Nicking shit from stores, whatever.”

He stares up at the shelves of models across the room, lost in thought. He's looking at the perpetually unfinished model of the _Fateful Archetype_ , its rudders gathering dust. Rung, who has long since finished writing feedback notes, crosses his arms on the table and leans forward, head to one side. 

“I was pretty miserable back then. And I started to think, why is all this slag I put up with my whole life still on me? Like, I knew people mistreated me, I knew I didn’t deserve what I got—and I was just like, why am I letting this sit on my shoulders? It's not my fault and it’s not my problem. I was like, I need a goal. You know?”

Rung nods. He thinks about his little house, handsome and brick-lined and well-heated and clean. Something he owns, something that can’t be taken away on a whim. “You wanted an education?”

“Yeah! Yeah, I wanted—it’s not just the school thing, though,” Hot Rod insists. “If I just wanted to go to school, I could’ve gone wherever. Tyrest has connections. Like, his last two mentees graduated from the same academy, that kind of thing.”

“You mean legacy students, I think?”

“Yeah, exactly. But that doesn’t _mean_ anything,” he says. “If I didn’t work for it, I’m just relying on cruddy Tyrest who got me in. I didn’t want an education to _have_ the education, I wanted—I wanted to _earn_ it. I needed to do something that mattered. That’s why I’m doing the staggered version of the self-sponsor degree. I mean, I also have like, no money for school, but _mostly_ it’s totally my choice, respect my journey and my goals.”

Rung smiles—he laughs, a little. “It’s good self talk,” he admits, when Hot Rod blinks at him, “sorry, I know it’s not that funny.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you laugh,” he says, “you always look so serious.”

“I’m not serious,” Rung says, feeling a little confused. “I mean. I don’t _think_ I’m serious. Am I too serious? Is this because of the glasses?”

“It’s not bad,” Hot Rod reassures him, “it’s just different. You have a good laugh. You should smile more.”

“Well—that’s—you shouldn’t say that,” he says, feeling hot under the plating, “that has—implications that you don’t really want to—“

“But that’s only when weird when you don’t know someone,” Hot Rod insists, “it’s not weird if it’s just two friends encouraging each other to live better, happier lives.”

“That’s not—” Rung starts to say, and then stops. “I…friends? Are we friends?”

“How are we not?” Hot Rod shrugs. “I’m here like literally every day, I just revealed scant exposition about my tragic backstory, you laughed at a joke I made… we’re friends. The pact is sealed.”

“You ask me out every day,” Rung says, which he intends to follow with _and I’m your professor,_ but Hot Rod heads him off at the pass.

“Yeah, I’m also asking you out every day! Did I do that today? Wouldn’t wanna break tradition. You have a nice smile! Wanna let me buy you dinner at the corner stand?”

Rung snorts.

“I’m _kidding,_ ” Hot Rod says, “I would take you somewhere _classy._ A truck stop.”

“ _A truck stop,_ oh my _God,_ ” Rung says, snickering as his head sinks into his hand. “Please never take me to a truck stop. Promise me you will never—Hot Rod, promise me you will never take me to a truck stop.”

Hot Rod makes a _pshhh_ noise with his mouth. “Fine then. You tell _me_ where we’re going on this date, oh mech of a thousand opinions.”

“We’re not going on a date,” Rung says. _‘Yet,’_ adds something in the back of his head. He ignores it.

~~

As the days get shorter, the evenings get longer. Rung stays out later. There’s a few bars near the campus, no prize for guessing why, and he rotates around them by night. He knows some of the staff, but not enough for them to consider him a regular. In his office, he turns his chair to avoid looking at the dusty shape of the unfinished _archtype_ sitting mournful and unfinshed in the shadows of his shelf.

It’s hard to go home once the ice starts. But he’s survived winters before. He’s slept alone in his berth in winters past.

He always makes it to the thaw. That’s more than he can say for everyone.

~~ 

In retrospect, it was probably the wrong call to be honest with Hot Rod about the holiday.

“What are you doing for the festival?” Hot Rod asks him, and like a fool, Rung answers honestly. He admits he’s spending it alone, that he doesn’t have anyone _to_ spend it with, that he usually bundles up inside and writes the final exam. And Hot Rod doesn’t _say_ anything, but he looks… worried.

Rung does not want a worried Hot Rod on his conscience.

All things considered, he probably shouldn’t be surprised when Hot Rod comes bolting after him at the end of the last lecture before the break. That doesn’t stop him from startling when a scrap of flimsy is shoved into his hands.

“Look,” Hot Rod says, “I know you can’t—uh, what’s the word—fraternize with students, I get it’s probably against policy. But I also don’t care about that. I’m having a thing at my apartment, it’s just some mechs I’ve known for ages. You should come. For the snacks.”

“Uh, I—” Rung stumbles, stares down at the scrap in his hands. There’s an address scribbled haphazardly on it.

“You don’t have to,” Hot Rod surges on, “I’m not making you do anything. But I don’t think you should be alone on the holiday. I’m pulling friendship privileges. If you’re worried about—work—I won’t tell anyone if you won’t. But also, I think Necho is literally sleeping with his TA, and no one gives him scrap about it.”

“Odd note to end on,” Rung says, although he secretly agrees. He’s _heard_ things. Through the walls. “Look, I can’t—I’m not promising anything.”

“You don’t _have_ to,” Hot Rod repeats, “but just think about it. Okay?” He touches Rung’s upper arm briefly. “You deserve to be happy sometimes. Everyone does.”

~~

Rung double checks the apartment door number on his note three times—which to him is a marked improvement over the mess he made with the shawl—before he pings the doorbell. It’s not even that he would be embarrassed if he got the wrong door, not more than an ‘oh I’m sorry, I thought I was going to a rager, have you heard one somewhere?’ would cover, so he’s not sure why he’s so nervous. Well, he _is_ pretty sure. He just doesn’t like how sure he is.

Not that he need bother. The door opens to reveal the bot from the lobby, her hand on something at her hip that he hopes is not a weapon. She looks him up and down, which he certainly doesn’t enjoy for even a second, and cracks a smile. “Hey there,” she says, “long time no see.”

“Uh,” Rung says.

“I’m Arcee,” she says, and holds out a hand, “I guess I really should introduce myself now. You a friend of Hot Rod’s, Rang?”

“No,” he says, automatically. Arcee lifts a brow ridge. He shakes himself. “Sorry,” he corrects, “yes. Of course. Admittedly, I’m nervous. Uh, but it’s actually _Rung_. Like a ladder.”

Her eyes flash. “Rung, huh,” she says, “well, get in here. Hot Rod! Rung’s here!”

The apartment is a flurry of motion, a small but handsomely decorated four-roomer stuffed practically to the brim with people Rung’s never met, a handful of rough-looking mechs with mismatched alts who turn to look at him with interest as he steps through the threshold. He hurriedly glances at anything he can catch attention to—the bare-brick walls, the softly orange overhead lighting, the small island separating the kitchen from the rest of the room—Hot Rod in the kitchen covered in gelatin powder, looking at him with a spark in his optics and a slowly growing smile.

“Hey!” he says, shoving a rag into the chest of one of the other mechs with a curt _“Drift, you’re on it, help him out—”_ before bounding over and throwing an unexpected and thoroughly unprofessional pair of arms around Rung’s chest. “I’m so glad you made it, mech.”

“Er, hello,” Rung says, tanks warming with the contact, “my pleasure. I, um, I brought engex, I hope that’s okay.”

“Oh scrap!” Hot Rod says, pulling back (his hands are still on Rung’s arms, they’re still on his arms, he isn’t letting _go_ and should Rung pull back too?) and gazing attentively at the bottle. “That’s the _good_ slag! You’re too good for this world—should I put this in the chill box or something?”

Rung’s face feels superheated. “Oh, no, it’s triple-distill—it can be room temperature,” he explains, “you only chill quadruple-distill, triple just needs to breathe first.”

“I hope it doesn’t need to breathe that much, ‘cause we’re pretty close to go time. Right?” he calls over his shoulder. One of the bots in the kitchen makes a rude gesture. “Oh! Uh, yeah, right, that’s, uh, you’ve met Arcee already,” he says, pointing, “and over there in the kitchen is Swerve, ‘cause he’s the only one who knows how to fix anything except, like, zinc mash—the mash was my idea,” he adds, swelling with pride, “uh, the dude who _is not going to light his vape up in my place thank you very much_ is Drift— _dude I literally just said no, fraggin’ quit it—_ uh, and uh, Gasket is—Gasket said he was gonna set the table, so, uh…” he pauses to stare at the glorified card table, a little thing of scraped up green paint which is most certainly _not_ set. “Uh, so, I’m not—totally sure where he is right now,” Hot Rod says at last. “You’ll know him when you see him. Sweet guy, kinda rough looking.”

“Alright,” Rung says. It’s quite warm in the apartment, and it smells overpoweringly— _fantastically_ —of savory iron. He’s starting to think the shawl, as much as he agonized over it, won’t be lasting long inside. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Good question,” Hot Rod says, now peering at the engex bottle with some fascination, “Swerve, you need any help?”

“Hot Rod, buddy, you don’t even have hotpads for the table,” the minibot in the kitchen calls back, “or serving dishes. Where did Gasket go?”

“How many options does he have? He’s _somewhere_.”

“Will someone move these onto the table?” Swerve shouts. “I’m just going to put everything in fragging oil pans, why not.”

Rung brightens and reaches out with both hands. “I got it,” he says, eager for something to get him out of the doorway. “Should I worry about a tablecloth or something?”

“Uh, I don’t think I even own one,” Hot Rod says, looking a little chagrined. “Should I put down a painting sheet or something?”

“I mean, you don’t _need_ one, but it’ll keep the table from getting stained,” Rung says, before realizing what he’s just said. The table is so deeply, ridiculously stained, that’s such a silly thing to—

“ _I’ve got a sheet,_ ” calls a voice from another room, and Probably-Gasket (that, or an intruder attracted through the window by the smell) comes bounding out, “Make room!”

“What the frag,” Hot Rod says, “why were you _in_ there?”

“Did you know only two windows in your entire apartment open?” Gasket says conversationally, throwing the orange makeshift-tablecloth over the table with ease. “It’s boiling in this room and freezing outside, I thought we could get some equilibrium of not-blowing-out-our-fans in here.”

“Running fans is what makes it fun!” Hot Rod snaps. “Anyway, if you wanted a breeze I could’ve opened the balcony door.”

“Well I’ve had enough of this conversation,” Arcee remarks, “I’m putting some fragging music on.”

“Hey!” Hot Rod hollers, fumbling around in drawers for a bottle opener, “there’s a playlist in the queue already, I don’t wanna listen to your ancient monks gargling marbles or whatever. It’s a family holiday, let’s keep it _friendly._ ”

It’s a wave of noise, mechs talking over each other and bickering—Rung carries various pans to the table and soaks the sound into himself. He stops Hot Rod from taking his own optic out with a knife and gives an impromptu lesson on how to use a three-part opener to a couple fascinated kids and Arcee, who is apparently much older than the rest of the crew. He pulls off the shawl and shoves it in his dorsal compartment. He avoids eye contact with Hot Rod’s friend Drift, who _despite_ their host’s wishes is blowing intricate smoke rings, nothing but hips and fangs and racing stripes, and who keeps offering Rung his vape and winking at him. He smiles with all his sharp teeth. He laughs.

“Okay, I have no idea how this turned out,” Swerve says, his voice stuffed with anticipation and pride under the frustration, “I’ve never done energon brulee before, and your oven _seriously_ sucks, so I’m just going to try and crack it and if it turns into a puddle we just drain it off into cups and have a sadness toast, and that’s all there is to say about that.”

Arcee wolf-whistles at the sound of spoon meeting crispy crystal coating. Gasket claps. Rung lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and offers to help carry it to the table, which is so small he’s half-afraid it’s going to bend under the combined weight of so much festival food.

It sounds like laughter. The room is hot except for the skinny slice of cold air that brushes past from outside every so often. Rung’s shoulders are crushed between Arcee and Drift, and across from him, Hot Rod is animated by some internal fire, lights flushed and covered in condensation and glowing from the inside out. There’s cheap goodies and expensive engex, and Rung tries everything, even the things Drift apologizes for having burned when Swerve wasn’t looking, even the things Arcee dramatically spits out, even the rotgut that couldn’t have cost Gasket more than ten shanix for the pair of six-packs.

The speakers that Hot Rod has often told Rung he built play a soft tune he could probably place if his mind wasn’t so present in the conversation. The tune sounds like a memory of swaying to something on the broadcast late at night, careless of time, forgetting about the morning.

He politely declines a dance request from Swerve, and two songs later, another one from Gasket (who takes rejection with a little more resistance), and he drains drinks and cracks jokes he hasn’t had the opportunity to trot out in more than a decade. Hot Rod laughs, he’s throwing off heat like a furnace from the high-grade and the smile hasn’t left his face in hours.

“Hey, this is the best one,” Hot Rod insists, “you’ve been saying no all night—well, at least for like, three rounds—you gotta dance with somebody, and if it’s _gotta_ be me—well, I’m the host, I’ll take this one.”

“What? Oh, no,” Rung says laughing, “no, I can’t—I can’t dance, I don’t know—“

“Come on, there’s nothing to it,” Hot Rod wheedles, “seriously! It’s slow music—don’t laugh! You don’t even have to move your hips, you just follow me and shift from one foot to the other. Come on!”

“No, no, I—Hot Rod!”

Hot Rod, professional Problem Student who has never listened to the word ‘no’ in his life, has gotten to his feet and is pulling Rung upward bodily, lifting him like nothing. Rung would protest a little harder, if he wasn’t laughing, if it wasn’t so warm in here, and suddenly they’re standing together in front of the couch. There’s an arm around his back, a chassis against his. Hot Rod smells like smoke and rotgut and fire, and he’s staring at Rung like he’s, like he’s… like he’s something worth staring at. He doesn’t have the words to describe it.

“I’m glad you came,” Hot Rod says, “I sorta figured you wouldn’t.”

“I almost didn’t,” Rung admits, “thank you for inviting me. You were right. This is nice.”

“You were right, too,” Hot Rod says, “you aren’t very serious.”

He lets his cheek rest against Rung’s cheek, and something warm surges its way through Rung’s systems. He feels wanted. He feels held. There’s something so familiar about all this, there’s something he’s supposed to be saying no to. But he’s got more than a bottle of engex sloshing around in him somewhere, and he can feel Hot Rod humming against his neck, slow and even. His metal is so warm under Rung’s hand.

“I might be somewhat overcharged,” he admits, and Hot Rod huffs a laugh.

“Yeah, I know,” he says. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

Rung peers over into the kitchen. “Maybe I should help with cleanup—I don’t want to leave everything to you—“

“Forget about it,” he says, “stay here. Drift can do it.”

“I didn’t help make anything,” Rung admits, “I feel bad.” He runs the flat of his palm half an inch up Hot Rod’s back before catching himself.

“Do it tomorrow. If you’re drunk, I’m not letting you take a transport alone.”

“I’m not going to berth with you.”

“Crash on the couch,” Hot Rod says. “We’re gonna daisy chain my berth plug-in, the guys are taking the floor in my room—they’re probably already in there. I’ve got those super big berth covers. The puffy ones. You won’t even notice you’re sleeping in the living room.”

Rung glances around the room. He hadn’t even noticed they were alone. Well, that’d be the engex, then. “What time is it?”

Hot Rod shrugs. “Late. Everyone’s crashing.” He straightens up, takes his arms out from under Rung. “I’ll go grab a comforter,” he says, “playlist is over anyway. Stay right here.”

He disappears out of Rung’s arms into one of the closed rooms, returning moments later with a copious armful of blanketing, which he throws victoriously down onto the couch. “Just _look_ at this puffy slagger,” he says proudly, “you’re gonna be warm as _smelt._ I’m kind of jealous.”

“You’re going to bed?”

“Yeah, I’m beat,” Hot Rod admits, shrugging. “I had a shift this morning, so I’ve been up since like dawn. Plus cleaning this place. I don’t mind telling you, it’s usually kind of a scraplett’s nest.”

“I like the lights,” Rung says, “it feels very… familiar. Lived-in. It’s nice.”

Hot Rod brightens. “I wanted it to feel like home,” he says, “I spent a lot of time in a place that most emphatically did _not_ feel like a home. This place is small, but it’s mine.”

Rung smiles. “Yeah.”

Hot Rod’s so close to him—he could reach out and pull him closer, the playlist is still crooning something slow and soft, and he’s cataloguing the shapes and textures of Hot Rod’s face. The matrix-blue optics. The cement-patched denta. Rung could reach up, touch—

“I’ll get out of here,” Hot Rod says, and Rung blinks, “let you get some sleep without me staring at you.” He smiles and slinks back towards his room. “Thanks for coming,” he adds over his shoulder, “I needed someone who’d bring a little class to the rest of us.”

With a wink, he’s gone. Rung watches him go, smiling, and curls up under the cover.

Even with the lights out, the room has a soft glow to it from the streetlights just outside the windows. There’s a low light over the oven that wouldn’t go out, no matter how many times he hit the power button, which now drenches the dark room in an overtone of orange.

The blanket is warm, and soft. The room is warmer. It still smells like fuel and spice and all the rest. The blanket smells like Hot Rod—he probably pulled it off his own bed. It’s familiar… he pulls it close to his face. It’s probably best he didn’t do anything rash, but a part of him is tempted to—was tempted, _was_ tempted to pull him back into his arms. He melts into the cushions of the couch. He can’t remember a time when he was this happy.

Actually… he stares out the window and watches ice creep across the glass, almost lit by the glow of the street, the sky dark in its eclipse. Actually, he can.

It crashes down on him like a ship through the roiling sand, shocking his metal and chilling him to the struts. What does he think he’s _doing?_ He knows what his life is like. He remembers the _Fateful Archetype_. He remembers every smoking wreckage and hospital room before that.

There’s a hole boring through his chest. He can’t get his engine to turn over.

Stupid, stupid, he’s so horribly, unforgivably stupid—Hot Rod has a life, Hot Rod has the kind of life a mechanism claws his way up for a lifetime to get. He worked hard for this. This place is lived in, this place is loved, and Rung is coveting it, he’s trying to steal it away from the inside out.

He’s walked away from so many disasters, so many cataclysms. His life is a series of scars on the surface of history, a long joke with a monstrous body count.

He was on the upper deck, when the ship went down, and his friend had been on punitive brig duty. His friend who hadn’t done anything but reach out a hand to someone so tired, so lonesome… If he hadn’t been station down there, if he hadn’t been alone down there, while Rung was up on the command deck having his license stripped…

What does Rung do for anyone? What has he ever succeeded at? He lets one group of petty tyrants after another push him down under their feet, and anyone who tries to help him up gets knocked down just the same. He’s alone because he’s _supposed_ to be alone, this life is empty because he doesn’t _deserve_ —

The last bot who dared to befriend him is dead now, buried in the hot slag that Rung was rude enough to crawl away from intact. He’s never been able to help anyone. All the patients he’d never see again, all the colleagues he couldn’t trust, and Hot Rod looks at him—Hot Rod looks at him like he’s important, with matrix eyes, like he’s ready to throw his life away. Bad things happen to people who get close to Rung. He knows that. He knows that, and he let Hot Rod get close anyway.

The blanket is thick, and Rung buries himself in it, holds it close around his helm. In this place that feels like a home and smells like him, this awful, beautiful midnight place, he buries himself and cries.

~~

Rung does what he does best: he disengages.

It’s easy enough to avoid being in his office during office hours. He calls in remote for a lecture once, and avoids sticking around after class for any follow-up questions. He doesn’t make eye contact with the kid for a week and a half in class, bows out hastily once or twice when he manages to catch up.

He drinks. More than he used to. More than he should. He’d been thinking about giving it up before all this, but now he can’t seem to stop.

If Rung can just shake him loose—there’s still time, he can still sever this. He sits in a bar he knows all too well, the night before finals week, drinking a cocktail he doesn’t like but already paid for, and thinks. Maybe if he’s just… horribly uninteresting, Hot Rod might get bored? But how could he be more uninteresting than he already is?

"Hey, professor," says a familiar voice, and Rung looks up in shock to see Hot Rod of Nyon leaning one elbow on the bar. "What a surprise. You come here often?”

"I don't... that's not," Rung sputters, "why are you here? It's not close to your apartment, or the school—ah, oh, are you with friends?”

“Just you,” Hot Rod says. Belatedly, Rung looks down at his drink.

“That’s nice of you,” he says vaguely, avoiding Hot Rod’s gaze, “but we aren’t really… how did you find this place, anyway? It’s not well advertized. Have you been before?” He takes a sip.

"Nah, I followed you here," Hot Rod replies, still smiling easily.

"You _what?_ ”

"What're you drinking?” Hot Rod says, wiping part of what Rung _was_ drinking off the front of his chest, on account of Rung spit out what he was supposed to be swallowing. “Smells sweet. I’m more of a hard and sour mech. You want another one? Looks like you’re almost done with that.”

“Did you just say you were _following_ me?”

“I’m taking that as a yes,” Hot Rod says, grinning, and swings an arm up over his head. “You want me to give you a charge?”

Rung stares at him. "You better be talking about a drink," he says.

Hot Rod laughs. "That's not a no!" he crows, and the heavy-set bartender waves her hand back at him, in a ‘ _wait right there_ ’ motion that sends Rung into a panic. He _cannot_ let Hot Rod buy him a drink, that is _so_ unprofessional, he—

More unprofessional than sleeping on his couch? Sniffing his blankets like a turbofox in heat?

“I can’t let you buy me a drink,” he says, pushing through the mortification and grabbing Hot Rod by the upper arm to get his attention. His face burns. “It’s not—I’m still your instructor, it’s a, it could be seen as a bribery thing, it’s not professional—”

Hot Rod rolls his optics. “We’re not swapping sparks, teach, it’s just a drink.”

And that’s less than what it was last time, Rung thinks miserably. All he’d done on the _Fateful Archetype_ was let go for a moment, and he’d lost everything. His fingers clutch at Hot Rod’s arm scraping the polish. He must look hopeless, he must look as pathetic as he feels, because Hot Rod relents after a second. “Yeah, yeah,” Hot Rod says at last, “fine, then, you can pay.”

And he leans over the bar to wave at the bartender. Rung pretends to be relieved that Hot Rod is giving him space. He lets go of Hot Rod’s arm and tries not to think about how it once felt wrapped around him.

Why is Hot Rod here—Rung is such a mess right now, he’s two glasses in and, and Hot Rod is—he’s wearing some high end polish, Rung can smell it from here. Why is he _smelling_ him? Primus have mercy. This cannot be happening.

He takes another gulp.

“So I haven’t seen you much the past few weeks,” Hot Rod says conversationally, after passing the bartender their orders and complimenting her decals, “I came by for your office hours today, and, uh, last time? And the time before that, but you weren’t in. You haven’t been in for a couple days. Busy?”

Rung swallows. That smell, smoke and polish—he can almost see the ice against the orange half-light, nighttime in the city, that whole place smelled like him—it’s coming upon him with a violence, the warmth of a thick blanket in a half-heated house…

“Uh, yeah,” he says, and tries not to focus on the shape of Hot Rod’s smile, “I’m sorry, I should always be in the office during those times, but I’ve been working on finals… I’m way behind, they’re starting tomorrow you know, I really should be home, working on that,” he manages. He moves to put his glass down on the counter.

“Are you serious?” Hot Rod says. The smile is slipping. “Dude, you’re _literally_ drunk, right now. You want to leave this bar so you can _go home_ and _write a test?_ ”

“Um.” Rung says. “Yes?”

Hot Rod laughs humorlessly. “Can you cut the slag? For a klik? For a fragging _nanoklik?_ Can you just talk to me like a person?”

There it is. Or, more accurately, here it comes. Rung looks down at the bar and waits. He had hoped, he had hoped they could have avoided this, he had hoped he could have just slipped out of Hot Rod’s life forever the way that he’s slipped out of so many people’s lives. He should have known better. He knows Hot Rod, after all, and Hot Rod is never typical. They couldn’t have ended anything without a fight.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, but without much conviction behind it.

He’s tired. Maybe if he sets his jaw, this can be over quickly.

“I know you’re avoiding me,” Hot Rod says, and Rung flinches. The smile is off his face entirely now. “If you want me to piss off, that’s fine, but fragging _tell_ me. You’re not a sparkling, and I’m not an idiot, even if you think I am.”

“I don’t think you’re an idiot, Hot Rod,” Rung whispers.

Their shots arrive. Rung breaks eye contact and fumbles his credit chip into the bartender’s hand. She glances at Hot Rod, reads the room like a professional, and gets out of the way.

Hot Rod is still looking at him. Rung can feel the optics on his face—he can’t look back—he stares down at the shots.

“Why are you avoiding me?” Hot Rod says. He makes no move towards the shots. “Just tell me. I want to fix it, but I can’t if you won’t tell me what I fragged up.”

Rung looks up at him. “Oh, _slag,_ ” he says, snatches one of the glasses off the bar, and miserably slams it like it’s the end of the world. “You didn’t do anything, Hot Rod, it isn’t you, I can’t believe—I don’t—” he covers his face with his hand and sighs.

You’re just as hopeless as Froid always said, his bitter little voice tells him.

“I’m _cursed,_ ” he says helplessly, “I don’t want you near me because I, because bad things happen to people I care about, and you are—” he hisses, and sets the glass down on the countertop far harder than he meant to. “You have a future ahead of you,” he says, “if you waste your time with me, something bad is going to happen to you, and I can’t—I can’t do that to anyone else. I can’t do it anymore.”

“Bad shit already happened to me,” Hot Rod says. “It ain’t gonna get worse because of you. I can guarantee that.”

Rung buries his face in his hand, shoving his glasses up onto his forehead. “Why do you _care?_ ” he asks. “Why does it _matter_ if I stay or if I go?”

“What?”

“Don’t you—Primus, Hot Rod, can’t you see what you’re looking at?” He presses a hand to his sparkplate, fingers scraping glass.

“I’m a wreckage, Hot Rod. I am in fact, as Froid will happily tell you, a forgettable nobody a million years past my sell-by date. The only thing I was ever any good for was psychiatry, and thanks to my own deplorable weakness I can’t even do _that_ anymore. Are you drinking this?” He points at the second shot, grabs it before Hot Rod can say anything, and downs it in one go.

“I have four bars that I go to on rotation, based on when their different bartenders are working, so that no one knows that I’m at a bar every night, but the only reason I even indulge in this pointless subterfuge is because I know if I didn’t, it wouldn’t _matter._ Nobody sees me. Nobody worries about me. A million years of practicing and all I ever managed to accomplish was live every time when I should have died. I was made to be miserable. The least I can do is not bring anyone else down with me.”

His hand trembles as he drops one glass into the other and shoves them both far from himself, down the length of the counter.

“I’m a nothing. They were always right; I was meant to be alone.”

He only catches Hot Rod’s face for a second, and it startles him. He expected to see… anger, maybe, or disgust? Confusion? But he doesn’t. He doesn’t see _anything._ He presses his face back into his palm again, ashamed.

“You feel better?” Hot Rod asks, in an oddly even tone. “Got it all out of your system?”

“Please go,” Rung mumbles, miserable.

“Rung, hey,” Hot Rod says, and Rung feels an arm snake up his torso and catch him softly by the collar faring. He wobbles, lets Hot Rod pull him upright in a kind of daze.

“Look at me.”

Rung looks at him. Cracked and patched denta, soot caught in the transformation seams. Blue light.

“Okay,” Hot Rod says, “grit your teeth.”

“Wh—” Rung manages, right before Hot Rod hits him.

It’s a solid punch across the jaw, strong and deafening. The hand on his chassis keeps him from crashing into the bar, but the same can’t be said for his glasses, which evacuate their place on his face post-haste and bounce across the counter. Someone is yelling—multiple someones are yelling—the bartender’s voice comes through, low and booming, and Hot Rod’s answering tone, loud and shrill—a strong arm slings itself over his shoulders and pulls him off the barstool and through a crowd of shifting mechanisms. High and strong, his hearing focuses on Hot Rod, near him, dragging him towards the door and cursing someone out.

Rung stumbles, reaches towards his face to readjust his glasses. He can’t find them. “What the hell,” he manages.

“Feeling better?” Hot Rod asks.

The door swings shut behind them. The outdoor chill falls like a blanket, sharp and heavy over them, ice frosting in his joints.

“You _hit_ me,” Rung says, touching his cheekguard blearily. Everything’s coming back to him in screeching half-tones, muted here and resonant there.

“Yeah, dude, I sure _did,_ ” Hot Rod says, “are you done?”

“With getting _hit?_ I guess that’s up to you,” Rung says, focusing suddenly on his student, who is dragging him outside into the freezing cold without even grabbing his shawl like a little brat— “What is your _problem?”_

“ _My_ problem? My problem is that I’m watching one of the best mechs I know call himself a _nothing,_ and I’m supposed to go along with it!” Hot Rod snarls.

“It’ll be better—” Rung tries to tell him, “you’ll be better off if—”

“Okay, put a stopper in _that_ slag drip,” Hot Rod says. “You won’t talk to me because you’re _cursed_? Are you _kidding_ me? You’re catastrophizing!”

He whirls around and plants his feet in the gravel, grabbing Rung by both shoulders.

“You think just because you gave up on yourself that everyone else has to give up on you too! Well, I _won’t,_ Rung of the Pious Fragging Pools. I am not some stupid kid who’s going to go to pieces in your hands. I am the sunshine future! I am your fragging _friend!_ I am tougher than the river of slag I had to wade through, and you are too, whether you believe it or not! So stop martyring yourself for one goddamn second, and look me in the face, and honestly tell me what you want for once in your life!”

Everything in Rung’s body is frozen. They’re so close now, nothing but vents clouding between them in the icy air. Hot Rod’s optics are wide, bright, desperate—but underneath all that, there’s something hard, something forged out of iron and bitter, gritted survival.

How could anyone ever think that those hard edges were ugly, how could they have been so blind—the scars, the jagged lines, the chipped paint—lean lines, perfect light. Blue and clear.

Rung’s fingers find the hands on his shoulders, wrap nervously around the wrists. “…I still want to be near you,” he says, and feels hands relax underneath his own. “I don’t want you to leave me alone.”

He stares, slightly bleary without his glasses, into Hot Rod’s face.

“I don’t want to be alone again,” he admits, “but more than that, I want… I want _you_ in my life. Specifically.”

Hot Rod looks at him hard, searching Rung’s features. “Okay,” he says, “that’s a start.” And he smiles.

Their plating is patterned with lattices of ice, melting where the heat escapes their joints and vents. They could melt and freeze together, the two of them, if they stood here long enough beneath the dark and the winter and the orange crescent of Luna 2 waxing in the sky.

Where could they be in a year, if they put aside the past and let the days come as they may come? Hot Rod has learned to do it. Maybe Rung can learn to do it too.

“But you’re not going to hit me like that again,” Rung adds, putting on his serious lecture voice. “Even if someone is catastrophizing, that’s no way to handle the issue.”

“Oh,” Hot Rod says. And then, “Would it make you feel better if you hit me back?”

~~

On the morning of Intro to Psych finals, while Hot Rod hums and taps and scrolls back and forth through his test on the front row of the testing hall, Rung will sit behind his desk and brush the dust from the rotors of his fateful archetype, and start the long process of putting the pieces together once and for all.


End file.
